


Unknown Frequency

by magifrog



Series: Unknown Frequency [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magifrog/pseuds/magifrog
Summary: As he adapts to a new, harsher environment, Wilson must learn to work together with his former enemy if they are to have any chance of getting home.Takes place after the events of the main game & during A New Reign, first chapter is sort of a prologue





	1. Beginnings

It wasn’t that Wilson wasn’t used to being alone, really. He’d made the conscious choice to isolate himself, out in this thick forest. It suited him.

Even though he had been somewhat unceremoniously fired from the university, he had a spacious workroom to set up his equipment in. The house itself was rickety enough that Wilson felt no guilt when he scorched the wallpaper or put a hole through the floor, but sturdy enough that it wouldn’t come crashing down- at least, not without a lot of provocation on his part.

And if his family (or what remained of it, anyway) never came to visit? Maybe it was for the best. There were- several things about him they had chosen not to come to terms with. Since he was a child, Wilson had always been tinkering, putting things together, taking them apart again: something he reckoned he had probably gotten from his great-aunt’s frequent visits. His parents had never quite approved of his leaving the family business, but after the… incident at the university they had withdrawn all support, and Wilson had come to live here, at Aunt Winona’s long-abandoned house.

For the most part, life went swimmingly. There were pensive walks in the surrounding wood, occasional explosions, sketching in a multitude of journals, more explosions, and the (admittedly rare) letters from former colleagues. Yes, there was definitely nothing he lacked.

Well, except maybe progress.

Out of pure frustration, Wilson had decided to abandon his newest pet project (quite literally, he had tried and failed to reanimate several mice) and sink into his old past-time of taking things apart. His radio was one of the newest models, but already the gears in his brain were turning, pondering how he might expand its range and maybe get a few more programs.

He had finished the last of the wiring and was putting the knobs back on when surprisingly, a blast of static came out of the speaker. Wilson scrambled to re-attach the volume knob, ears ringing from the deafening sound.

“I’ve broken another one,” he sighed. The static, much quieter, cleared somewhat, reappearing in short but uniform bursts. Picking up on the pattern, Wilson listened more intently. Morse code? Or just more random noise? Then the bursts grew more intelligible, almost as if…

“I sa…. re you lis…..ng, pal?”

“What? Is someone there?” he murmured, pressing his ear to the speaker.

“Yes,” the radio hissed. Wilson, who had just remembered the voice in the machine had no way of hearing him, got the feeling something was distinctly wrong. His curiosity had the better of him, though, and he pressed forward.

“Who… who is this? Can you hear me?”

“Y….now, pal, you might hav……ck if you adjus……..”

“Oh! Oh, right.” Wilson fiddled with the frequency knob.

“Much better, isn’t it? I must say, you’re quite the talent.”

“Really, this is nothing,” he said, a bit flustered from the unwarranted praise. “I’ve always had a, an inventive mind, I guess, and…”

“I’ve been so rude,” the voice cut in. “I haven’t answered your question. You may call me Maxwell. I suppose we should at least know each other’s names if we are to be acquainted properly.”

“My name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, but Wilson is fine.”

“Wilson. That’s a lovely name.”

“Oh, um, so is yours. Maxwell. It’s very… distinguished.” Maxwell chuckled through the radio at that remark, and Wilson felt himself grow more self-conscious. “By the way- how are we hearing each other, exactly? I might have some prowess, but nothing quite as far as two-way communication.”

“You do underestimate yourself, pal, although it is a bit of interference from my end. I think it would be best not to explain in detail until we get to know each other a little better.”

“Yes. Because of… patents and things, I understand.”

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we could both use some rest.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Maxwell.”

“Goodnight, my dear Wilson.” The radio went silent, and Wilson sat, holding the box in his hands, for a long while.

 

Over the next weeks, Wilson and his new friend had built quite the repertoire. It stung a lot less each time he had to go back to the drawing board when Maxwell was there to comfort him or give him a nudge in the right direction.

Something deep in his intuition still nagged at him, skeptical of how conveniently they were able to communicate or how little Maxwell talked of his own life. Most of the time, he chose to quash his suspicion. When was the last time he had truly had a peer to exchange ideas with? When was the last time he had felt this fulfilled, happy even? He knew he had some self-destructive tendencies, but this was not the time to listen to his negative thoughts. Not when he and Maxwell were on the cusp of their next discovery.

Unfortunately, he very much felt discouraged when his teleportation experiment blew up in his face yet again. Sighing, he slumped into his armchair, preparing to cut his losses and start over again with a more advantageous combination of chemicals. The radio by his side crackled to life, and he turned eagerly to it.

“Say, pal,” sang a familar, sanguine voice. “Looks like you’re having some trouble!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, just wanted to mention that this chapter was written before Winona was added to the game, so Aunt Winona has no relation to her (although they do happen to be kinda similar!) I think it's pretty funny though, so I've kept it unchanged.


	2. Under a Harvest Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson & Maxwell meet again after the initial events of A New Reign.

_“You.”_

“Yes, Wilson. Me.”

“You’d better stay away from me.” Wilson grabbed for his spear, hoping the maneuver came across as more intimidating than clumsy. Around him lie everything he had gathered over the past few weeks- progress he didn’t feel like losing just yet.

“I have no intention of killing you, if that’s what you’re implying.” Maxwell made a point of pretending to check his nails, seemingly unaffected by the weapon pointed at his face. “Actually, I’m surprised to see you here, pal. The last time I saw you, you were… a bit tied up, so to speak.”

“Wait, then you haven’t managed to find a way home? You’ve just been wandering around this place?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Even with the knowledge I accrued on the throne, it seems impossible to return home without the use of my powers, and impossible to use my powers without being tied to that damnable chair. Quite the conundrum.”

“And I’m guessing you want my help, then?”

“Are you offering?”

“Of course not!” Wilson bristled. “How many times have you killed me?”

“Technically, I haven't laid a single finger on you.”

“Well, you brought me here in the first place-”

“Because you wanted my help and my knowledge. Besides, what’s the point of a teleportation machine if you don’t go anywhere?”

“Well- I- this conversation is a waste of time.” Wilson frowned, lowering the spear and glancing at the sky. “I guess all of our conversations were.”

“Is that an attempt at hurting my feelings?”

“It’s a fact.” He turned, rummaging through his chest for an axe. “There’s not enough time in the day for me to stand here chatting. Go or stay, but at least spare me the sarcastic comments.”

“You’ve gotten a lot more tenacious, haven’t you? Back then, you were more of a shrinking violet.”

“I definitely liked you better as a radio.”

 

The sun lowered itself over the foothills, red and weary, and Wilson put another log on the fire, roasting a little morsel of rabbit he’d clumsily impaled on a twig.

There were times that he didn’t mind being in this realm as much, even as homesick as he was. He had set up camp under the shade of a multitude of birchnut trees, orange and yellow in preparation for the coming winter.

A few leaves drifted lazily through the air, turning cartwheels down to Wilson’s feet. He sighed and gnawed a particularly chewy part of his meat, humming a little ditty he’d heard on his radio back before it had been repurposed.

_The night was mighty dark so you could hardly see,_

_For the moon refused to shine…_

_Couple sittin' underneath the willow tree_

_For love they'd pine…_

“That’s rather lovely.” Maxwell’s voice rang through the trees, and Wilson realized they had camped quite near each other.

“Would you mind maybe going somewhere else?”

“And why is that? Am I truly that unpleasant?”

“Well… yes.” There was a brief moment of silence, and for a moment Wilson thought he’d actually left. “Maxwell?”

“Yes, yes, I’m still here. A bit preoccupied.” The sun was rapidly sinking, and peeking around the tree he was resting under, Wilson noticed a distinct lack of light coming from the other camp.

“Er...” He scratched his head, then sighed. “You should probably stay the night over here. I already have a fire going.”

Maxwell stood, trying his best to look dignified as he strode to the campsite, settling under a birchnut on the other side. “I must say I appreciate the cordiality considering the circumstances.”

“Well, I’m not going to let you die. I’m not… like that.”

“I’m not incompetent,” Maxwell huffed. “It saves time and resources to camp together. Besides, I haven't had a real conversation in ages.”

“You haven't met any of the others yet?”

“They haven't taken as kindly to me, as you can imagine.”

“Yeah. I wonder why.” Wilson stirred the fire with his twig, trying to ignore the uneasiness night always brought. “To be completely honest, I haven't made a very good impression either. There was this fantastic metal man, an automaton of some sort, and-”

“And you must have tried to take him apart, yes?” Maxwell smirked.

“Well- it would have only been temporarily…” It was embarrassing how predictable he was, sometimes. Or rather, how well Maxwell knew him from the weeks assembling his portal. “It was amazing, though. I’d only dreamed of something as advanced as that coming to life.”

“Time is very different in this place. The ones I lured here were from all walks of life, from many different points in time than just yours or mine. Although, it happens to be much easier to get along with the people of our era, I must say.”

“Then the automaton is from the future?” Wilson’s eyes widened. “Then, if we get back… will centuries have passed? Like Rip Van Winkle?”

“Probably not. Depending on the whims of whoever sends you home.”

Wilson let out a long sigh, slumping into the pile of leaves he’d accrued. “If I had stayed on the throne, maybe I could have at least sent one of us home.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but-”

“Not you. You can stay here and think about what you’ve done.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I am some naughty child! I never did anything unfair or unsavory.”

“Really?” Wilson raised an eyebrow. “You brought us to a place we have little to no chance to escape, full of terrible dangers and shadow creatures and awful rain, and-”

“It’s scarcely different from the world we left. The one difference is that you have no home to protect you, and I don't see why that couldn't be solved.”

“What about the tests? Or the dying? It’s not as if I don't remember being torn apart by dogs. Multiple times, even.”

“I always provided you with the resources to solve your problems. Death could have been avoided many, many times if you had just worked a little harder.”

“How many times have you died, Maxwell?” The former king fell silent, suddenly looking extremely weary. The sky lightened slowly above them, until it was at the point where Wilson felt comfortable enough to move from the fire. He stuffed his belongings into a beaten rucksack, gathering enough ash from the embers to neutralize the spider innards he had collected earlier.

“Heading our separate ways, then?” The older man's tone had a touch of sadness, and if Wilson had an ounce of empathy for him, he might have hesitated. Instead, he nodded, and walked nonchalantly into the forest beyond, following the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics here are from "Shine On, Harvest Moon" originally by Ada Jones & Billy Murray (although I prefer the 1930's Ruth Etting version). I recommend giving it a listen if you like period music, it's one of the most iconic songs of the early 1900's and a fun listen : )


	3. It Had To Be You

Wilson was in a bad state. Huddled in his tent, the cold eating at his skin and his insides twisting into knots, he ran his fingers through his matted hair. There were certain things he had gotten used to, sure, but never them. Never the- the things he saw around the edges of his vision, or the terrible beasts that swam in and out of reality, knocking him to the ground, tearing open his ribcage- Oh, but the memory only made it worse. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

How had he dealt with this in Maxwell's trials? He tried desperately to remember any sliver of helpful information, but it was all so long ago it seemed like a dream, going through that darkened realm. He couldn't even remember much about the throne, beyond the uncomfortable feeling of crushing darkness.

Enclosed spaces helped, and so would sleep, but Wilson doubted it would come. Instead, he could only depend on the psychological effect of shelter, trying to ignore the thought that past the thin cloth walls sinister beasts crawled and hissed, seeking him out. No, sleep was not something Wilson was going to get anytime soon.

Suddenly, the tent flap lifted, and Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin before the familiar face peeked through.

“Say, pal, you don't look so good.”

“Maxwell.” Wilson edged away, pressing as much against the tent fabric as he dared to without collapsing it. “I- I passed your little test, you shouldn't be here! I can't do it again, I can't- Not in the dark, Max, not…”

“You seem confused. We spoke a week or so ago, don’t you remember?”

“I- we did?” Wilson attempted to steady himself, mind not quite all in the present. “I don't remember anything very well, I guess…”

“In any case, I’m not here to harm you, dear Wilson. I was obviously wrong about this tent being abandoned, so I will go on and take my leave.”

“Don’t!” Wilson blurted, then regained control of himself embarrassedly. “I mean, er- it’s dangerous out there. You could stay.”

A grin spreading across his face, Maxwell took a seat, although his spindly legs left little room in the cramped tent. “As I was saying earlier,” he continued, trying to sort out his legs, “you don’t look so good. Pale as a ghost. When was the last time you ate something, hm?”

“Not… not in a while,” said Wilson hopefully.

“Here. I have no qualms sharing, as you’ve been so kind to me.”

"These are… seeds.” Wilson frowned, taking one from Maxwell’s gloved palm. “Are you sure you don’t have anything more substantial…?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Maxwell said in a tone that very clearly indicated he had been eating seeds since winter began. Wilson decided to drop the subject, cracking the kernels between his teeth.

“Thank you.” Wilson shivered despite the growing warmth of their shelter. Admittedly, he felt much better with another person with him, even if it wasn’t necessarily someone he trusted. He took a few more deep breaths, trying to placate his body, which was very much still in fight-or-flight mode.

Maxwell shifted, removing his outer jacket. Puzzled, Wilson began to ask why, but then the coat was draped around him, Maxwell patting his shoulders.

“You should warm up. There's no use in you dying, especially not if I’m to share this tent with you.” He grimaced. “Believe me, I would truly hate to have to clean up a frozen corpse.”

“That was almost a nice gesture. Maybe you aren't completely irredeemable after all.”

“I’d like to think so.” Maxwell folded his arms across his chest and attempted to find a bit more leg room. “I thought about what you said. About… how did you put it… thinking about what I’d done.”

“Oh.”

“There are…. parts of what happened that I can't say I’m proud of.”

“Well, that’s almost an apology. Go on.”

“No, that was all I had. For the most part, I did what was necessary. Although the hounds were a bit… cruel, I suppose. That early on, at least.”

“At least you… sort of listened? That’s progress in my book.” Wilson let himself smile for the first time in what seemed like a long time. “Although, you used to be good at listening.”

“I have to be honest. Most of what I said was to trick you into coming here.” Wilson’s face fell a bit.

“So then, the bit about me being the smartest man you’d ever met-”

“Very much a lie. The smartest man I’ve met was back in England, an acquaintance of mine who had been a staple of the show for years.”

“The show?”

“Ah. Yes. I was a magician for a circus, one of the greatest shows on earth, excepting maybe Barnum and Bailey's- they had just had a show in France, you see, and the pressure was very high-” Wilson yawned, finally feeling his eyelids growing heavier. Maxwell continued on a tangent, the words blending together into little more than noise, and Wilson in his frail state found himself leaning into the other man’s shoulder as a means of comfort.

The familiar notes of a song flitted through his ears, and his last thought was that maybe he was humming, or Maxwell was humming, or the song originated from an altogether different source, but it was soft and it was lovely.

_Shine on, shine on, harvest moon…_


	4. I'll Get By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double upload! Fair warning, there is a bit of blood/injury in these next two chapters, but nothing super gory or explicit. Let me know if I need to change the rating or provide additional warnings. Thanks!

Wilson had been averse to traveling together, of course, but his personal sense of indebtedness kept him from saying no.  
Very quickly he had learned that Maxwell lacked many of the skills he would otherwise have honed in the outer worlds, barely able to perform simple tasks like sewing or starting a fire.

Really, the infuriating part was that Maxwell refused to admit his shortcomings or inexperience- which led to one of Wilson's shirtsleeves being significantly shorter than the other after he’d requested Maxwell fix a tear.

He figured it was probably the years on the throne that had done it- most things had probably been provided to him, to the point that it simply wasn't a skill he ever needed. Still, Wilson appreciated his prowess in battle and willingness- bloodthirstiness? to take on the more difficult beasts. Also, Maxwell wasn’t half bad at cooking, Wilson mused as he watched the ex-magician slicing carrots on the flat half of a split log.

“What are you making?”

“Ratatouille.”

“Rat-what?”

“A peasant dish consisting of sliced vegetables. Surely you could use something in your diet besides meatballs.”

“I don’t just make meatballs.”

“Ah, yes, that odd… jam-adjacent slurry you like to make.”

“I call it berry soup, and it’s delicious.” Wilson crossed his arms.

“Really, we ought to try making wine someday,” said Maxwell wistfully. “I do miss certain… amenities from the other world. Cigars especially.”

“I miss reading. Not that we have time for it anymore, but it would have been nice to have had something beyond surviving to do.”

Maxwell grunted in agreement, adding his vegetables to the pot. In the distance, a low howl echoed across the snowy plain.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Wilson grabbed his spear, stuffing a poultice into the pocket of his vest. “Another one, so soon?”

Maxwell put the lid on the pot, composed as ever. “Really, Higgsbury, they aren't so terrible. We may be outnumbered, but well-equipped and well-prepared.” He drew himself up to his fullest height, unsheathing his nightmare sword out of thin air, and in that moment Wilson marveled at the showmanship of the whole thing. If nothing else, Maxwell would have been amazing on stage.

"I think… the most effective way to deal with them would be for me to distract the bulk of them, and for you to pick them off.”

“And you're suddenly fine with being bait?”

“I’m much faster than you. Unless you’d like to try and outrun a pack of drooling hounds on those joints.”

“I just don't see why we need to plan for this. Overthinking things may be your level of expertise, but I-”  
The hounds broke out of the tree line, fully visible against the frosted grass.

“This isn't the time!” Wilson shouted, leaping forward and raising his arms in a crude attempt at distraction. Most of the pack turned their attention toward him. Wilson waited until he could see the foggy panting of the dogs' breath before turning tail and running for the horizon.

Maxwell, meanwhile, made short work of the hound he had engaged, plunging his ethereal sword through the brittle skull of the beast and twisting. Admittedly this was the part he had the most fun with. The years on the throne with no entertainment but toying with the occasional visitor had done a number on his sense of joy.

In the distance, he could see Wilson struggling to stay ahead of the other three beasts, and he shook his head, breaking into a run to catch up.

“Always with- the plans-” he huffed, his lungs burning.

Wilson looked over his shoulder, realizing he needed to change direction. He looped back around towards Maxwell, leading the bulk of the pack past him while the other man pulled another one out of the line. Wilson flashed him a smile, happy that he’d found a rational, efficient strategy that didn't involve any violence on his part.  
His mood was quickly ruined as he stumbled over an unused rabbit hole, submerged in the snow, and _crack_ \- something in his foot felt sharp and white-hot, but he stumbled forward still-

The leader of the pack was on him, smarter and faster than the other dogs, had closed the distance in the seconds it had taken Wilson to limp forward, ripping at his hair with teeth the size of Wilson’s palm. Thankfully he was face-down, but he could do nothing but use his arms to shield the sides of his head, although the hound was pawing those too, shreds of fabric ripping and angry red marks where the claws scraped his skin.

And then it was over, suddenly, just the pressure of the hound’s body on his back until someone managed to roll it off him.

“Max,” he said feebly, turning his head so he wasn’t speaking into the dirt.

"You really don’t look so good.” Maxwell knelt beside him, assessing the damage.


	5. ...As Long As I Have You

There was something in Maxwell’s face that was unreadable- concern? guilt, maybe? but Wilson had no brainpower to dwell on it as he forced himself up. His ankle was swollen, his arms were shredded, and the back of his head was bleeding. The adrenaline in his system made his hands shake as he brushed himself off, and the pain that had been dulled by instinct was slowly but surely flooding back into his body.

“At- at least I still have my pretty face,” he joked, wincing as he put a bit too much weight on his bad leg.

“Covered in dirt,” said Maxwell, and the indecipherable look broke into something clearer for a moment. The taller man moved to Wilson’s side and made an attempt to help him over to the camp, stooping down to try to compensate for their differences in height. Sighing, he put away his sword and slung an arm under Wilson’s arms, then knees, lifting him into the air.

"Hey-”

“Just- huff- hold on a moment-” Breaking into an awkward pace between a shuffle and a jog, Maxwell managed to get Wilson to the tent, straining as he set him down just within the entrance.

“You didn't have to do that.”

“Nonsense.” Maxwell rummaged through their belongings for some semblance of medical supplies. “Granted- sitting in a chair for years and years did nothing for my fitness.” He produced a wad of silk and a few mashed-together spider glands. Wilson remembered the mixture he had stuffed into his pocket and applied it to his ankle, feeling the area go a bit numb. Whatever was in the spider venom, it definitely had its applications.

“Get me some branches so we can make a splint. I’m not certain how bad the damage is, but I’d rather not end up with a permanent limp if it heals wrong.”

“You seem to know your stuff.”

“Well… after an amount of, of chemical burns and property damage, you learn a few things.” Wilson winced as Maxwell wound silk around the poultice and his ankle, pressing two thick twigs into place before securing the splint with more silk.

“Is that alright?”

“It should be fine. I doubt it’s much good compared to seeing a real doctor, but-” Wilson trailed off, wincing as he attempted to pull some of the cloth away from his bleeding arms.

“This seems like it’s a lost cause. The sleeves are completely gone, I’ll need to find you something more suitable to wear. Somehow.” Maxwell glanced at his patient’s expression. “Oh. You’re in pain, aren't you?” He pressed some of the salve against the scratches, and Wilson sighed in relief.

“Your bedside manner could be improved.”

“I’m not used to caring for others quite yet, I suppose.”

“What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Being king. Being the ruler of this place.”

“You should know, shouldn't you?”

“I can't remember much of it. I don’t- I don't tend to remember a lot nowadays. Between all the deaths and such.”  
Maxwell fell silent, and his face was flat and hard as stone. He took off his outer jacket, then removed his suit jacket, placing it across Wilson’s knees.

“Take that ruined vest off, and the shirt too. You can borrow this so that you're at least somewhat decent.”

“Thank you.” Wilson started fumbling with the buttons, and Maxwell cleared his throat embarassedly, opening the tent flap.

“You could wait for me to leave.”

“Oh.” Wilson smiled apologetically, pausing until the other man was out of sight. He slipped the vest off, then eased the mangled shirt over his head, ripping the cleaner parts into bandages and tying them firmly around his arms. He wanted to avoid ruining Maxwell’s suit, given how nice of a gesture it had been. Really, the experience had drawn out a very different side of him. He still wasn't normal, per se, but he had been a lot more empathetic than the first few times Wilson had gotten hurt.

“Are you decent?”

“Hold on just one moment.”

“It is freezing out here, Higgsbury, and I don't intend to waste firewood warming myself.”

“Noted,” Wilson called through the tent flap, slipping into the rather oversized suit jacket. It wasn’t much help in terms of warmth, but if Wilson turned the collar up he could get it to cover most of his torso.

“Alright, come on in.”

Maxwell lifted the flap, squeezing again into the narrow space and looking a bit amused.

“Very fashionable.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have much to wear underneath it,” said Wilson, gesturing at the upturned collar. “Will you answer my question, now? About being king?”

“It wasn’t at all the same as being here,” Maxwell started, his voice dropping and features growing grim. “You don't view death the same way. Or life. We will always, unfortunately, one way or another be reborn in this place, but being there, there was not even that. Death might lose its meaning after you’ve gone and done it a few times, but to never die… to always exist, without break, without pause…”

“That seems rather terrible,” Wilson remarked, putting it mildly.

“Yes.” Maxwell folded his hands, trying to find a position where his legs would fit comfortably. “It wasn't like what just happened, at all. When I saw you fall, it felt- real. Watching it happen from my seat, or projecting myself out there, even… it was never like that. I never needed to deal with the consequences. At least, not until you finally beat me at my own game.”

“I’m glad I did. You seem much happier this way.”

“Somewhat, yes. Although, my first few deaths were extremely unpleasant. I had forgotten I needed to eat to survive under normal circumstances.”

“Maybe I should have helped you earlier.”

“No, I deserved to have at least a small dose of my own medicine.” Maxwell shimmied his way over to Wilson’s side, huddling next to him. “Speaking of, it really is freezing. I should have done away with the blasted winter when I had the chance.”

“Make sure you don’t lean too hard on my arms. They do still hurt.”

“I wasn't intending on it. Anyways,there is something I've been wondering for the past few weeks. If you aren’t on the throne anymore, who is? Do you have any sort of memory of who freed you?”

“Well… I’m sure it will come back to me, eventually. It’s just that I can't stand the thought of those… those-”

“Them.”

“Yes, Them. I don't know. I remember a smell, if it helps.”

“It might.”

“It smelled a bit like roses.”

“Ah.” Maxwell gritted his teeth. “That gives me a very, very bad feeling.” He turned to Wilson, his expression softening. “Right now, though, I’m sure you’ll need some rest. It’s getting dark out, and you have a lot of getting well to do.”

Wilson frowned, but sank into the bedding, unable to argue. The pain that had been throbbing through him worsened, then eased as he found a comfortable position.

“We’ll revisit this conversation once I can remember a bit more.”

“Alright.” Settling into their evening ritual, the two lay shoulder to shoulder, just enough contact so that Wilson felt secure enough to sleep. And although Maxwell rarely ever needed to sleep, even he couldn't deny the touch was somewhat comforting. As the evening grew darker and the sun dimmer and dimmer through the tent wall, Wilson felt his eyelids finally get heavier and heavier. And then, he heard Maxwell sing something softly, almost to himself, in a voice that was not quite baritone and not quite bass:

_Oh I’ll get by, as long as I_   
_Have you_   
_Though there be rain, and darkness too,_   
_I’ll not complain, I’ll see it through…_

Maxwell's voice trailed off, and Wilson could hear him faintly hum the airy melody, and then only the quiet patter of the snow that had begun to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics included here are from "I'll Get By" by Ruth Etting. I did take some tiny liberties with the time period on this one, since I think DS canonically takes place in the early 20's, but let's chalk it up to Maxwell meddling in places he is most definitely not supposed to be.


	6. Flowers

Wilson’s face was covered in a good amount of hair by now, and his ankle had made a surprisingly fast recovery. He resolved to perform a full dissection on those spiders later, to pinpoint the reason for their extreme healing factor. But for now, it was enough to celebrate the passing of winter and the first blooms of spring.

The tent had finally collapsed that morning, in part because of the heavy rain that had swept through the valley and partly because of Maxwell’s habit of accidentally kicking the tent poles in his sleep with his long legs. There wasn’t much of the snapped poles or wet fabric worth saving, and there had been plenty of bickering over exactly whose fault it was before they had clambered out of the remnants and decided to search for a new place to live.

They were making their way through a verdant grassland, and the rain had let up enough for the sun to halfway dry their dripping clothes. Flowers were everywhere, popping out of the grass crowned with sparkling drops of dew, and despite his damp clothing Wilson found himself smiling.

“What are you doing?”

“I think I’m going to make a daisy chain,” Wilson said, crouching to pick one of the fragile flowers.

“Do we really have the time for that?”

“It’s still morning as far as I can tell. Besides, I don’t think time is exactly an issue. We’re here forever.” Maxwell opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and sighed. Wilson ignored his annoyance, pinching the middle of the daisy stem to make a small hole and threading a second daisy through it. Eventually, when he deemed the chain long enough, he joined the first daisy with the pinched end, making a loop.

“Maxwell,” he called across the clearing.

“Have you found something useful, or is this another one of your silly eccentricities?” Wilson bounded up to him, interrupting the twig-collecting that Maxwell had been pouring his efforts into.

“I have something for you. Can you, er, bend down a little?” Rolling his eyes, the taller man stooped to about Wilson’s height, surprised when the daisy chain was placed rather ceremoniously around his neck.

“What is this?”

“Well, what does it look like?”

“I meant- why give it to me?”

“You just… seem like you could use something to put you in good spirits. It’s been an awful morning, and…” Wilson trailed off, unable to read Maxwell’s expression. His face seemed more neutral than anything, and whether that was indifference, or to hide embarrassment, or even to mask anger bubbling below the surface- he felt in that moment like he had leapt back to square one. For all the time they had spent together, he didn’t really feel like he knew Maxwell at all.

Maxwell drew himself back up to his full height, still not acknowledging Wilson’s attempt at friendship.

“Why don’t we split up, and meet back here when evening falls? I think we would accomplish more if we aren’t trying to collect the same resources in the same area.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Wilson said, trying not to give away his disappointment. “I’ll head west, then.”

Maxwell nodded, back turned, and sauntered east.

 

When dusk fell, a newly-shaven Wilson stacked logs together in a pyramid shape in a patch of earth that he’d cleared of anything combustible. As much as he hated to admit when Maxwell was right, splitting up had been a good option. This part of the grassland was plentiful in berries and other forage, and he had stumbled across a burrow of moleworms that he was eager to come back to for hunting, at least while the rabbit dens were still flooded. A tall grey shape appeared in the distance, and Wilson waved. As Maxwell grew nearer, he noticed the necklace was still safe and wholly intact.

“Did you find anything good?”

“Abandoned penguin nests. We’ll need to eat them all tonight, but I think a little protein would do wonders for our diet.” Maxwell paused. “Say, you look… less grimy than usual.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Wilson murmured, striking a piece of flint against a flat rock until it sparked. Hurriedly, he blew on the little bundle of tinder he had lit, placing it under the log pyramid once the flame seemed strong enough to burn on its own. “I found a pond to wash up in, so I took the opportunity. Er, sorry if that was a waste of time, too. I know you wanted me to be more focused.”

“No.” Maxwell fiddled with the flowers around his neck. “I think you look much better clean-shaven. More civilized.”

“Oh.” Already, Maxwell was turning, fishing the delicate eggs from his knapsack.

“Get the pan, will you?” Wilson nodded. The 'pan’ was a bent piece of metal they had haphazardly stuck a wooden handle onto. It never quite cooked anything evenly, but neither of them were particularly good at cooking anyway, so they had learned to make do. The eggs were delicious and filling, although Wilson wished he had some salt and pepper. Stomach full, he laid back in the soft grass, peering up at the moon.

“Even without stars, it’s beautiful.”

“I suppose.” Maxwell took a twig and poked at the fire, debating adding another log. “Really, I enjoyed this place in the beginning. It felt like I was finally being recognized for my talents and all the hardships I endured…” Wilson frowned.

“I could say I relate to that. When I first heard your voice on that radio, it felt like I finally had someone I could trust.”

“That stings, pal. It isn't as if you can't trust me-”

“I already forgave you. You don't need to act like you're sorry or try and- and twist my words or anything like that.” Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just that maybe, just maybe, it felt like someone cared about my work. For the first time since my aunt passed on. So… forgive me if I don't feel particularly good about how things turned out.”

Silence permeated the thick, smoky air, and Maxwell leaned over to grab a log for the fire.

“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he finally said, determining that was probably the closest to a regular social norm he could muster.

“It happened years ago. Old wounds.”

“That doesn’t always make them hurt less,” Maxwell offered.

“She was the one that helped me get into university.” Wilson picked at the grass, idly tearing a blade of it into pieces. “My father wanted me to stay at the farm, and then later tried to convince me to go into the agricultural sciences. Or become a veterinarian.”

“That explains some things.”

“Huh?”

“It explains how you've survived this long. You understand how to make things grow properly, and between that and your more chemical-related expertise, it’s made you quite the expert on settling this land. I have no such talents.”

“Well, you can pull a rabbit out of a hat.” Maxwell paused, notably silent. “You… can do that, can't you?”

“My act was more sophisticated than that,” said Maxwell in a tone of voice that clearly indicated he could not. “Magic is what got us into this predicament, anyhow. I’d be happy if I never saw another stage again.”

Wilson closed his eyes and lay back down in the tall grass. “For what it’s worth, I think you would have been magnificent.”

The ex-magician said nothing to that, but softly pressed the chain of daisies closer to his chest.


	7. Somewhere A Voice Is Calling

In the morning, Wilson and Maxwell discussed their plans.

“Ultimately, we should find a way to get home,” announced Maxwell.

“Well, we know a few things.” Wilson gestured with his fingers. “First, the person sitting on the throne has the ability to bring others in or out. Second, to reach the throne we need to find a portal, and get through whatever barriers are set before us.” Wilson brought his hand to his chin, straining to remember. “The question is, who is that person, and what do we need to do to be able to reach them?”

“I hope it isn’t that girl arsonist. She is much less… forgiving than you, to say the least.”

“Who, Willow? She and I are great friends, actually. Although there was an incident in which she set me on fire. But that was an accident, and she also caught fire, so I figure it evens out in the end.”

“As I said, I hope we don't run into her.”

“If she was in power right now, don’t you think everything would be a bit more combustible?”

“Fair enough.” Maxwell stopped walking, kneeling to the ground. “You really don’t remember anything about who freed you, then?”

“I tend not to remember anything… upsetting. After a few too many deaths, the mind tends to- what are you doing?”

“It’s for you.” Maxwell threaded a rose through Wilson's lapel. “I think it goes nicely with that new vest.”

“Oh.”

“There. Now you look-” and Maxwell stopped himself- “proper.”

“I- thank you.”

“As you were saying?”

“Um, I’ve just become very forgetful. Just because of the constant- constant bad memories and such, is all. It's as if there’s only fog where the more upsetting bits should be."

“An amnesiac. Very useful,” Maxwell intoned, annoyedly putting his hand to his forehead. “Well, we'll have to see when we arrive, then.”

“First, I guess we could try and put together a divining rod.”

“It may be harder to do without that radio.” Maxwell paused to strip the berries off of a nearby bush. Wilson nodded and went to help him, holding his knapsack under the branch as Maxwell’s long fingers picked them off.

“I think I can do it. In theory. I would just need the right parts and some sort of magic to bind it to the portal- er, I’ll leave that part to you.”

“I think it might be wiser to make a suitable camp. The summer months are coming, you know, and I for one don't care for dying of heat exhaustion.”

“The frost has barely melted in some places! If we start now, we could be done searching far before summer.”

“And if we die in the process, we lose all our hard work. I believe you told me yesterday that we had all the time in the world.”

“Maybe, but- I don't know, I want to go home. I want to be around people again, and be able to do something that actually matters to the world…”

“When I first met you, Wilson, you were as good as a hermit.” Up ahead, a path extended out through dense forest, and Maxwell took the opportunity, glad for some direction. “You told me about how lonely you were, and were glad to talk my ear off for hours at a time.”

“Don't- don't use my own words against me. The point is, I can't stand being here, with no-one to talk to and no chance of traveling anywhere meaningful. Do you know how many times I've trod paths just like this one? I'm never going to be able to, say, walk the streets of Paris, or- or explore the canals of Venice, or be able to do anything besides basic survival. Life is quite literally meaningless here, Maxwell. I can die any moment and I just have to start over again, and do the same things.”

They walked in silence then, for a long time. Wilson had his hands shoved into his pockets, balled into fists.

Admittedly, he felt upset, but less about delaying the journey home. He felt like he and Maxwell were growing apart, and the blank look on the taller man’s face did nothing to soothe his fears. A part of him very much did not want to be left alone to fend for himself again, but a quieter, gentler part was beginning to feel almost fond of having Maxwell around. He loved being able to talk to the other people that occasionally populated the world around him, and especially had taken a liking to Willow in the brief time they had traveled together, but something was… different with Maxwell.

It could be the remnants of the feelings he had fostered when he was only a crackling voice coming through a speaker. Maybe it was the more fun arguments they’d had, matching wits and poorly hiding their smiles as they quarreled about the irrelevant details, like cooking techniques or fashion or who was to do which chore. Wilson looked up, again noting the now-wilting flowers around Maxwell’s neck, then peering down at the red rose in his lapel. He couldn't name the feeling he felt, seeing them, but it was bittersweet and caught in his chest.

“Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“Is it really so bad here?” The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds were just beginning to turn pink. Wilson paused to think about the question, looking at his feet as they propelled him forward along the cobblestones.

“I don't know. I like it here, sometimes, when there’s just a quiet moment like this one.” He fidgeted with a piece of flint inside his pocket. “And I like spending time with you, I do. It’s just that I wanted to be able to learn things that I can't here, and do something great with the knowledge. Prove to Father that he was wrong.”

“That's understandable.”

“Do you… like it here?”

“I haven't been in the outside world for some time,” Maxwell sighed. “I told you that time is different here, and although I doubt the gap is large between my disappearance and yours, I have spent what is seemingly an eternity in this fishbowl of a world.”

“So you're afraid of going back?”

“It’s not that.” Maxwell frowned at the accusation. “I just no longer have the skills to survive in the outside world. I don't know a trade, and I wouldn't have even the limited powers I do now.”

“You could live with me. Heaven knows I have the space.”

“Wilson, you don’t want to live with me.”

“Well, why not? I already have been for the last- well, I don’t know, the equivalent of several months?”

“Out there, you’ll have your choice of company. You're going to want to meet your future wife, spend time with your colleagues…”

“Maxwell, after all we’ve been through, you think I wouldn't value your company?” Wilson could see the other man’s lips quirk up into a half-smile.

“We should make camp for the night,” he said, but his voice was softer than before.


	8. Charlie

When night fell, Maxwell retreated to his bedroll, and Wilson was a little surprised. Maxwell didn't usually need to rest as much as Wilson did, and curled up in their tent more as a measure of security or for warmth than anything.

Wilson, on the other hand, found it hard to fall asleep. He sat down close to the fire, across from Maxwell's sleeping frame.

Suddenly, Wilson could see something in the darkness beyond the meager light from the fire. He rubbed his eyes, but the shape persisted. His mind raced- surely the visions wouldn't come back now, of all times, when his mental state was clear and sharp- but a long hand extended out of the darkness, and before Wilson could stop it, snuffed out the fire.

Scrambling for his flint, a match, anything, he was stopped when he glimpsed a round pale face emerging from the darkness.

“Wilson, darling,” came a voice that was simultaneously at the edge of the clearing and next to his ear. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Again?” he sputtered, but already he could feel a wave of familiarity overcoming him. The throne- the feel of the darkness binding him to itself, the feel of a million voices at once in his head, until it was ready to burst- the feeling of his mind slowly becoming corrupted, rotting into a black slurry, filling his veins, and then-

“Ah. You remember now. Here, I'll give you back your little fire.” The woman, with a flick of her fingers, relit the still-glowing embers. “I’m a bit insulted you would forget me, hm? After all I’d done for you?”

“You’re the lady,” Wilson breathed. “You set me free. Are you- can you send us home?”

“Right to the point. I like that about you, Wilson. You are so simple, uncomplicated. A man who knows what he wants.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Well… no. Not unless you do something for me.”

“Alright, sure.”

“Kill him.” The woman pointed a long, gloved finger at Maxwell’s sleeping form.

“What? No!” Wilson leapt to his feet, prepared to- well, to do something to stop her, even if he was unarmed.

“You can relax. I won’t do anything to him myself. Apparently,” and she looked behind herself, into the dark, “that wouldn’t be quite as amusing or in the spirit of the little game we’ve begun to play.”

“I’m done playing games. I just want to go home.”

“Well, you have two options, Wilson dearest. You can go through the same horrors you faced defeating Maxie here, in a big drawn-out affair in which you’ll doubtlessly be killed over and over….” The woman adjusted her hair, brushing it over her shoulder. “Or, you can kill the sleeping target I’ve set here before you. Really, it should be easy for you. He was the one who brought you here. He made you suffer through years and years of torment, did he not?”

“I don’t think that was really him, though. And I don’t think this is really you. The last time we met, you freed me. You showed me compassion.” Although he was terrified, Wilson forced himself to meet her eyes. “I want to help you, too.”

The woman scoffed, turning away and chuckling to herself.

“After all these years in hell, you still have your ideals. How very… endearing.” She turned back one last time, a sickening smile creeping across her face. “We’ll see if you stay that way.”

She retreated into the darkness until her form was little more than an outline. “By the way, darling. Tell Maxwell that Charlie sends her regards.”

 

Once he was absolutely sure she was gone, he shook Maxwell awake.

“Wh- Higgsbury, I swear, the one time I need to rest-”

“Just listen, alright? A woman named Charlie was here. She’s the one in power right now, and she doesn't seem to like us.”

“Charlie?” Maxwell’s face twisted into an expression of grief Wilson had never seen him wear. “What did she say? Did she- does she forgive me for any of this?” Wilson put his hand gently on Maxwell's shoulder.

“I’m sorry. She didn’t- er, she just told me that we would have to face her trials, and things like that.” Wilson left out the murder part, figuring that if Maxwell seemed this upset over just the mention of her name, he would feel distraught knowing the woman wanted him dead.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I could have seen her, talked to her- she was lucid, then? She wasn't overtaken by the shadows?”

“I don’t think so. She just seemed very angry and very devious.” Wilson knelt next to Maxwell, who had only just begun to prop himself up into a sitting position. “So then, you know her.”

“She was my assistant. My stagehand. I accidentally brought her with me to this place.” He sighed, holding his head in his hands. “They took her, corrupted her until she was barely human anymore. She was only a puppet serving their- and my- will.”

“But she helped me. Maybe there’s something still there worth saving.”

“Maybe. Or it could be that she was carrying out your command.”

“I suppose I still don’t actually know much about how it all happened,” Wilson admitted.

“In any case, we will need to be incredibly careful. If she hasn’t forgiven me…” Maxwell shook his head. “I doubt she intends to play fair. We’ll need to have our wits about us.”

“I survived everything you threw at me. I think we can manage.”

“I hope so.” Maxwell stifled a yawn, and all of a sudden Wilson was hyper-aware of the dark circles ringing his eyes.

“You need to rest.” Maxwell didn’t protest, lying back down on the thin mat.

“Perhaps you should, too.” Wilson nodded and cautiously lay next to him, a little surprised as a bony arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“Oh.”

“Should I move?”

“No.” He leaned into Maxwell’s chest, finally letting the tension leave his muscles. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, it’s a matter of practicality, really. Warmth and all that.” Maxwell sighed into Wilson’s hair, and Wilson was glad he had had the chance to wash it. “Actually, to be completely ingenuous, I needed the comfort.”

“Do you want to talk more about it? About her?”

“We’ll have time to talk after we’ve gotten through this. We need to focus on surviving the present if we are to take back the throne.”

“Alright, then. I don’t mind this.” It was strange, admittedly, having this much physical contact, but whatever social stigmas might have existed in Wilson’s mind had dissipated quickly.

He remembered then the first night they’d spent together, when he had been cold and shaking, watched by the ethereal hunters that had waited patiently outside for the moment he left his tent. He would have died, then, if not for Maxwell.

And although he couldn’t feel completely at ease now, the encounter with Charlie leaving him paranoid of shadows lurking in the darkness, it did feel a little less frightening to know that someone was there next to him.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a little more to it than that, he pondered as he drifted into a light, dreamless sleep.


	9. Side By Side

A new path had appeared when dawn lit up the valley, conspicuous stones against the usual green foilage of the forest.

“She certainly doesn't want us to waste any time,” Maxwell had remarked as they were packing up their belongings.

To tell the truth, Maxwell felt more than a little apprehensive about the entire situation. Maybe it was made worse by the fact that Charlie had only shown herself to Wilson, very purposefully timing it for when he had been asleep. It wasn't as if he was new to these mind games- he had played his fair share of them, back when- but he wasn't accustomed to being reduced to a pawn. Even being forced to survive, he had had some semblance of dignity left, and he had a few of his old powers and tricks up his sleeve for when things were truly harsh.

But he had never fought a true enemy, one that schemed or plotted or did anything that wasn’t directly correlated to eating him. He had doubted if Charlie would fight fair, but she had been patient enough to let him build the skills he needed to survive, albeit slowly. And she had given him the opportunity to meet Wilson, who had taught him much more than his few scraps of pride left would allow him to acknowledge. It seemed she was as interested in matching wits with him as he had been, initially, with the survivors he had collected.

Even while the cogs in his brain were turning, he could feel a familiar pain in his chest at the thought of her. It had almost been better, when the darkness had shielded him from his guilt and inhibited his empathy. Then, he had seen Charlie as a tool, a chess piece like all the others, the queen to his king. But now, he felt awful and wrong, knowing she was trapped here. He could still recall blurrily what her face had looked like back in Europe, when her cheeks had still been rosy that night on the marina, more beautiful even than the setting sun. How she had smiled, and laughed, and read the latest novels, and drawn designs in her little book. She had been so full of life, so human, and he had taken that from her only by association.

“What are you thinking about?” Wilson’s voice startled him from his ruminations.

“Only the past. Things of no importance to our current situation.”

“With all due respect,” Wilson started, as he often did before saying something that irked Maxwell, “it might be important to understand Charlie in order to defeat her. Or maybe talking about it would prevent her from using your feelings against us.”

 _“With all due respect,”_ Maxwell hissed in a tone that he somewhat regretted, “my feelings are not _dangerous_ to you.”

“I’m sorry.” The scientist shrank, and Maxwell berated himself for snapping at him.

“I meant to say that I don't intend to give her the option to use that strategy against me. Against us.”

“I thought it could just be… helpful. Maybe you would feel better.”

“I appreciate the thought, Wilson, but it’s neither the time nor place. Expending our efforts in some crude attempt to doctor me is pointless, if we are to escape anytime soon.” He realized the statement had come across far colder than he had meant for it to be, but decided to leave it at that. As much as he wanted to assuage Wilson’s uncertainties, feelings were frankly secondary.

And maybe it was only to have something to focus on besides his memories of Charlie, but he found himself thinking more about Wilson. He had always had… certain tendencies in his personal life. The fact that they no longer lived in larger society had conveniently allowed him to forget his reservations.

And here they were, two bachelors living and working together, sleeping side by side, and Wilson had not noticed or did not care about the implications. But it was unfair, how he had been given a chance now of all times. He was no longer young or handsome, not after They had slowly drained him, eaten his life force. He was bitter and full of sorrow, and felt unable to care or provide for Wilson as much as the scientist had done for him.

Still, it was impossible to deny he had become very fond of him even in such a short time. In the first days of his fall from grace, as he jokingly thought of it, everything had seemed inconsequential. He had nothing but his codex and whatever he could fill his arms with, and death was much less substantial than it was now. With Wilson here, he felt as though things mattered- even little things, like the campsite they had built together with their own hands, or the daisy chain that had wilted and fallen apart but that he still kept in his pocket.

On top of it all, given Wilson’s tendency to lock away his memories, there was a chance that he could be forgotten, that the next time Wilson might not even let him extend the olive branch. The possibility frightened him enough to make survival his first priority, even in light of their escape plan.

“There,” said Wilson, pointing at a shape in the distance, surrounded by greenery. The gate loomed above them, somehow more imposing than the one Maxwell had built, and something heavy sank to the pit of his stomach.

“Are we ready for this?”

“I don't know. But if we don’t try now, we might never.” Wilson looked up at him and smiled. “You know, I’ve never heard you question yourself before. Perhaps you’re learning some humility.” Maxwell allowed him a tense smile, and slowed as they approached the gate.

“Now or never, then.”

“Maxwell?” Wilson reached over and touched his arm. “We’ll be fine. The two of us can outsmart and outfight whatever gets thrown at us. I promise.”

“You don't need to reassure me, Wilson.” Maxwell looked down at him, putting on a brave face. “But thank you.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

And then they opened the door, and long, otherworldly fingers drew them into the darkness beyond.


	10. Darkness

It was pitch dark, except for a meager fire that was already on the verge of dying out. Immediately, they set about stripping the branches of a nearby sapling, tossing them on the fire.

“You were right about the game not being fair,” Wilson murmured, and Maxwell could tell the darkness unnerved him more than usual.

“I'm sure morning will come, eventually.” He offered his hand, and Wilson took it. “In the meantime, we’ll explore a bit. Let’s make ourselves a torch.”

“Alright.”

Maxwell found a suitable branch and unbuttoned his vest, ripping the hem of his shirt and tying it around the end. He stuck it into the fire, and the cloth burned easily.

“Wait, Max.” Wilson picked up a bent piece of metal, the old radio attached to it in a mess of wiring. “She did leave us this, at least.”

“The divining rod. So the rules of the game haven't yet changed.” They set forward, listening intently to any changes in the quiet static of the radio’s transmission.

 

It had been hours, and Maxwell had needed to replace his torch three or four times. Wilson kept a tight grip on the divining rod, and even in the dim light Maxwell could see his knuckles were white from squeezing so hard.

“It should- It should have been dawn by now. It’s not going to let up, is it?” 

“Everything will be fine. We only need to find the parts for the teleportation machine, and then we can be done.”

“And what new hell will she bring us to next? This is just- even you didn’t do this, not for the very first test.”

“Wilson, listen. We can only think about the present, one goal at a time. Otherwise, you’ll feel overwhelmed, and she will have already won.” Maxwell knelt, driving one end of the torch into the pliable earth, and dug in his pockets for the seeds he’d managed to find earlier in the night. “These might make you feel better.”

“Thanks.” Wilson smiled weakly as he accepted the food, munching slowly as if savoring the tasteless little things. They sat in silence for a little while, as long as Maxwell would allow, and then he grew anxious about the wavering flame and pulled it from the dirt.

“How is the radio signal?”

“We’re close. I think.”

“Are you holding up? Mentally?”

“As best I can, I guess.” They continued onwards, until the static grew loud enough to hurt Maxwell’s ears, and black flowers sprouted from the dirt. Immediately, he held out an arm to stop Wilson.

“I’ll retrieve it. I don’t want you to go near these things.”

“Are you- are you going to take the light with you?”

“Here,” said Maxwell, taking a thick branch from the bundle he’d acquired and lighting it with the tip of the torch. “I’ll only be a moment. You’ll be able to see me the whole time, I promise.”

“Just- be careful,” Wilson pleaded, and although Maxwell felt it was a bit silly for the simple task before him, he only nodded and gave Wilson’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Tiptoeing through the ring of shadowy, thorned plants, he retrieved an odd-looking, potato-like object from the center and quickly returned, grin spreading across his face.

“That wasn’t so hard. We’re making progress already, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Wilson agreed, not looking entirely convinced.

Maxwell extended his hand once again, threading his fingers through Wilson’s.

 

Days had passed, or at least Maxwell guessed they had. By his count, the full moon should have risen, but somehow even that small advantage had been taken from them. There was food, but never, ever enough. In some attempt to keep Wilson’s spirits high, Maxwell had eaten only the bare minimum, passing all the more delicious scraps and morsels to his companion.

And Wilson was in a sorry state, constantly shaking, eyes darting to and fro in hopes of warding off the hallucinations he was no doubt suffering from.

As resilient as Maxwell was in the darkness, he too was beginning to feel his senses dulling, the pull of the forces in the dark clouding his judgement. To Wilson, the things in the dark were mysterious, terrifying, hungry for his flesh. For Maxwell, they were a potent drug, a promise, whispering sweet nothings into his ears.

He was tired, and hungry, and constantly cold. His body was beginning to break down from the non-stop walking without rest or proper nutrition. He could go to the darkness- he could be enveloped by it, so easily, and the shadows would cradle him, would give him back at the very least a portion of his power, so that he would be a new man.

He peered back at Wilson, who was being dragged by the hand in the direction that set off the divining rod the most. There was no chance that he would be able to abandon the scientist, not with the way he felt now, and not with the vulnerability Wilson was displaying.

“Let's rest, shall we? I think it’s well-deserved. Only for an hour or so.” Wilson didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on a spot in the darkness. Maxwell planted his torch in the dirt, setting down some logs he had collected and stacking them in a cubic formation that almost resembled a log cabin. He piled grass in the center to serve as tinder, setting it alight and watching as the light grew, glowing yellow and orange.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, pal?” Wilson, again, did not respond, but sat down close to the burning pile. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I don’t want to talk.” Wilson’s gaze was now locked to the fire, and Maxwell watched the light dance in his eyes, reflected in the dark irises. “I don't want them to hear me.”

“Wilson-” Maxwell stepped toward him, a little taken aback when the scientist turned his head to look at him, for the first time in seemingly ages. “Wilson, they can't hurt you. Not while I’m here. I promise you, I will fight them off, I will keep you safe.”

“Maxwell, I just want it to stop.” Wilson’s eyes watered, and the corners of his mouth jerked downwards. He let go of the divining rod, and it fell to the ground with a muffled _thump_. “I can make this all go away,” he said much more quietly, his fingers trembling as he edged closer.

“We’ll make it through this. I promise you.” Wilson had an intense, desperate look in his eyes, but against his better judgement, Maxwell closed the distance between them, reaching out to try to comfort him.

Wilson leapt forward, knocking him to the ground. Hands slid around his neck and squeezed- and perhaps if he was not so frail from the lack of food, of sleep, he could have pried them off-

The world was fading, quickly, and he clawed at the ground, his pockets, anything he could use as a weapon. Instinct had kicked in and his fingers found their grasp around a stone.

He bashed it into Wilson's forehead, loosening his grip enough for a frenzied swallow of air. Wilson, seemingly coming to his senses, or maybe just aware now of the trickle of blood running down his temple, let go of Maxwell's neck.

“Maxwell- I-”

“What… Wh… What is the _matter_ with you?” Maxwell wheezed. “I am _not_ your enemy!”

“She… I am so sorry. I don’t- she promised I could go home if I did it. I just- Maxwell, I’m so sorry.” He scrambled backwards, curling in on himself and covering his face in his hands.

Maxwell struggled to get his lungs in working order, content to let Wilson have his moment. Somewhere in his brain he understood that Wilson wasn’t in his right mind, that these were no ordinary circumstances, but there was a crushing pain in his chest that he was sure was not from his lungs and he wanted nothing but to put distance between himself and Wilson and the whole accursed world.

They stayed like that, ten feet apart, Wilson’s knees drawn to his chest and Maxwell lying on the ground, staring up at the inky darkness, until the fire was dangerously low.

“Let's keep looking.” Maxwell eased himself up off the ground, lighting a torch and motioning for Wilson to join him.

“What?”

“Well, I don't intend to just leave you here. Come on, then.”

 

The next time they made camp, they had managed to collect all the parts needed for the teleporter.

It hadn't been easy- Maxwell had had to do most of the fighting, and had been forced to draw a group of territorial pig-men from their encampment one by one in a long, arduous endeavor. The shadow beasts were another problem. Each time Wilson trailed too far behind (being rightfully paranoid, Maxwell had stopped leading him around by the hand) a dozen shadows emerged from the darkness.

They had at one point nearly taken his arm off, tearing at the flesh with sharp mandibles and needle-like teeth- but Maxwell had been there in time, with his sword, even as he heard the whispers from all around him begging him to join in the feast.

Wilson was lopsided-looking now, caked in dried blood on one side, and they had not come across anything with any sort of medicinal quality. His good arm still clutched the radio, and although Maxwell had his fears that Wilson might damage it or steal it, he could not deny him the last comfort he had.

They had started a campfire near the location of the last piece they needed, the wooden platform that would serve as the base for the contraption.

Truthfully, Maxwell hoped to somehow sober Wilson up. He had never needed to actually put the thing together, and had come up with the idea so long ago that he no longer even had a mental blueprint. There had been some things he had stockpiled, although their nomadic strategy had made it hard to invest any time in building anything.

He had wordlessly constructed an almost-functional “science machine,” as he and Wilson called it colloquially, and Wilson had corrected his mistakes and given it life.

He had wasted no time in performing the necessary steps to make a pot, and this he had placed precariously on the fire, pouring in the somewhat mushy berries he had saved in his rucksack. He wished that he could have made something more substantial, or tastier, but it had been difficult enough to obtain even this amount of berries.

“It smells heavenly,” Wilson said timidly.

“It should help you a little to eat something. You’re always so pale.”

“Losing my arm hasn't helped things.”

“It’s right there, you haven’t lost it.”

“Well, I can barely move it anymore. It’s about the same, I think.” Wilson drew closer, noticeably more lucid than he had been since they had unlocked Charlie's door. “And to think, you used to make fun of berry soup.”

“It’s turning out to be more of a jam. Not enough water to be a proper soup.”

“It's too bad I didn't write the recipe down for you.” Wilson smiled, and it was like a sunbeam had somehow permeated the great darkness. Maxwell could feel his face lighten, too, and he ladled out a bit of the goop onto a makeshift wooden plate.

Disregarding all manners, Wilson ate with his hand, wolfing down handfuls despite its high temperature. Maxwell, who was more used to being starving by now, let himself savor the sweet, tangy flavor, sighing as warmth radiated from his stomach.

The jam was gone before either of them had been sated, but still it was one of the best meals Maxwell had ever eaten.

“Something about being hungry makes food taste so much better.”

“You're right about that, pal.”

“Maxwell…” Wilson set his plate down, shifting into a more comfortable position. “You do forgive me, right? For being… hostile, for lack of a better word?”

“For nearly choking me to death?”

“Er. Yes.”

“Wilson, you were only trying to survive. And Charlie had put the idea into your head, it isn't as if you wanted to try to kill me of your own accord.”

“But I knew she wouldn't have freed me. I really regret even entertaining the thought, I…” And Wilson's voice lowered to barely a whisper. “...need you, Maxwell.”

“You have me.” There was an instant of stillness, of silence, and then Wilson clambered into Maxwell’s lap. He was warm, and his fingers found their way up to brush back Maxwell’s greying hair, lingering there indecisively.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't,” Maxwell said softly, and before Wilson’s face could fall he spoke again. “I want to kiss you when we’re home, and the circumstances are less…” He gestured at the darkness around them.

“You- want to kiss me?”

“Wilson, you have been dropping pins from the moment you decided to let me travel with you. It’s only fair I should pick them up.”

“It's just… I didn't think you would.” They sunk together into one shape, Wilson's head pressed to Maxwell's chest, Maxwell's arm wrapped around Wilson’s side. Wilson's breath slowed, eyes drooping, and sleep found him for the first time in weeks.

Maxwell was exhausted, too, but he forced his eyes open, unwilling to let the fire go out. Eventually, fatigue and the lulling motion of soft breathing wore him down, and he talked himself into a moment's rest- only a moment.


	11. After You've Gone

“Well, well.” Charlie clapped her hands together, perched on the throne with a poise as elegant as any queen.

“Charlie,” Maxwell rasped, realizing all of a sudden that he was no longer next to the fire, that Wilson was nowhere to be found. “I don't understand.”

“It _is_ first thing in the morning. Would you care for some tea?”

“What is this? What is happening?” He crossed his arms, frowning, although his interest was piqued when an end table skittered towards him, piled high with croissants and biscuits and other odds and ends.

“Do you like this? I made it.” Charlie smiled, although it was less of the sweet expression he remembered and more of an ominous grin.

“Shouldn't I be dead?”

“Should you?”

“You clearly wanted Wilson to end me, or you wouldn't have told him to.”

“Oh, Maxie. Dear, dear Maxwell.” Charlie stood, making her way down the steps to meet him in a regal stride. “I want you to _suffer_ , not necessarily _die_. Death is an inconvenience. Pain is much more destructive.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?” The question broke her air of importance, and a look somewhere between distress and irritation crossed her face.

“I haven't.”

“I missed you.” Maxwell put all his cunning and his strategies aside, even with the knowledge that he was face to face with the woman who hated him most. He felt that even if she killed him on the spot, she deserved nothing but the truth from him, hard as it would be to tear up the persona he had worn for so long.

“Don't pretend to care about me now. Maxwell, I cared for you. I helped you. I gave everything.” Charlie turned away so that he could not see her face. “You messed in a domain that you knew nothing about. You're the one who should be punished. Me? My only sin was standing at your side.”

“I won't argue with that. I’m not going to try to worm my way out of whatever it is you’re going to do. I deserve this. All of it.”

“And you think that somehow that makes it all better? You had the power to save me, Maxwell, and you did _nothing_.”

“I didn't- I had no idea how to use my powers, at first. And then, when I realized I could pull people into this world or let them out, you were too far gone.” He lowered his gaze, clasping his hands together. “I couldn't have known how entangled you were with Them. I was worried that trying to send you back would kill you, or that you would be in a state to where they would lock you in an asylum, or that it would release Them out into the world.”

“It doesn't matter. You stopped caring about my fate the moment you had this wretched little place to tower over.” Charlie crossed her arms, turning again to face him. “You had your playthings to keep you amused, and finally one of them managed to best you. So now you’re here, playing the same game, to get back your powers. You don’t need to make amends with me. You don’t even want to send our friend Wilson home. You just want what you lost before.”

“Maybe that was how I felt at first,” Maxwell admitted. “I felt bitter and angry, and I wanted to storm over and take everything back. But I’m tired, Charlie. I’m lonely. I just want rest, and peace, and I want the same for you and for everyone else here.”

“I’m not going to let you have that.”

“Fine. Do what you will with me, then.”

Charlie clapped her hands, and black, spiderlike fingers dragged Maxwell down into the shadows.

 

There was no telling how long it had been. Maybe days, maybe months, maybe years. It was dark, pitch dark, and there was nothing around him.

The shadows no longer spoke to him. Although he had not eaten since the hazy memory of the berry jam, he felt no hunger. Nothing. There was nothing here, and the black emptiness threatened to swallow him up, his tiny, frail frame but a dot in the middle of this vast expanse of floating space. He was nothing.

He had only his thoughts for company, and they were not his friends- it was a choice between letting his mind fill with the nothingness and disappearing, or his final conversation with Charlie being repeated over and over, the hurt he felt that they could never go back to the way things had been, that she would never forgive him. And underneath that, the knowledge that he would probably never see Wilson, again, either- that maybe hurt even more, that he could never have the love he had unexpectedly found in this dreary place, that he had been denied of in his original home.

He chose to block these vile foes out of his mind, and the nothing consumed his mind.

 

“Show yourself!” Wilson shouted at the darkness, more angry than frightened. “Charlie, I know you're watching.”

He scowled and hurriedly snatched up the pieces of the teleportation machine, fumbling in the dark to collect it all. Normally he would have been afraid of Charlie or her cohorts attacking him without any light nearby, but he reasoned that if they hadn’t done anything to him yet, they might not hurt him at all.

Vision was still crucial, though, and so he fished his flint and steel from his pocket and struck until the sparks caught a patch of grass. This he used to light a torch, and with it in one hand and the divining rod in the other he made his way to the last piece. Putting the teleporter together was easy. He had done it so many times by now that it only took a matter of minutes, and time was of the essence if he was to rescue Maxwell.

Of course, Wilson hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that or what his plans were once he was through the portal. But he was sure he could figure _something_ out, or die trying. The machine whirred to life, and he stepped into the portal, devoured by shadow.

He arrived in a large, extravagant hall, with checkered marble floors and an ornate staircase leading up to the throne. He recognized Charlie as the figure sitting in it, her demeanor far less intimidating than when he’d seen her last. She was slumped, one hand propping up her head, and her expression was thoughtful and a little sad. And although Wilson remembered then the pain she had inflicted on him the first time they’d met, he felt nothing but sympathy for her, for better or worse. Maybe more for worse, if she was truly bent on destroying Maxwell, but Wilson felt he had to at least figure out the reason why.

“Ahem.” Charlie hadn’t noticed him yet, surprisingly, so he cleared his throat. She turned to face him, peering down at him curiously.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“I’ve come to- I’ve come to get Maxwell back, and I’m going to do it… by any means….” Suddenly his throat felt very dry, and he barely managed to squeak out the last word. “Possible.”

“Bravado doesn't suit you, Wilson darling. You're not terribly good at it.” Charlie waved a hand, and a group of shadows converged, bending themselves into the shape of a chair.

“Come, sit. I’d like to talk to you.” Wilson did as he was told, climbing the many stairs and feeling a little winded afterwards. This was the first time he had seen Charlie clearly, up close, and she was radiant. Black curls adorned her face, and her fingers were long and dainty, tapping themselves lightly on the arm of her throne.

“What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

“I'm not happy, Wilson.” She drew in a long breath. “I thought that if I could punish the one responsible for my suffering, maybe I could find peace.”

“What did you… do to him?”

“That's irrelevant. The point is, I don’t feel anything. Happiness, anger, clarity- the only drive I had to keep going is just gone, and I have nothing again. I am nothing.”

“Charlie…”

“I just wanted to know one thing, I suppose.”

“Alright.”

“Why is it that you stopped? When you were attacking him? What made you give up your only way home?”

“Besides the bleeding gash in my head?” Wilson joked, but the annoyance that crossed Charlie's face cautioned him to be straightforward. “Well… more than any attachment I have to him, I just… I thought about it, and I could never feel good about returning home by betraying another person. It’s just that I wouldn't be the same person.”

“You didn't want to return home a murderer.”

“Of course not. That's just not how I was raised.” Wilson shifted, uncomfortable at being the focus of attention. “Even in this place, even if it's sometimes hard to remember, life is precious. And it’s beautiful. And even if someone is seemingly evil, or ugly, or ignorant, there’s always value to them.”

“That’s certainly optimistic.”

“Maybe.” There was a brief silence, and then Charlie stood.

“I’m not going to forgive him, ever.”

“You don't have to. He did some awful things.”

“Why did you?”

“Maybe my optimism, or my forgetful nature. But I'm glad I did, in the end.” For a moment, Charlie's youthful-seeming face grew tired, rings appearing below her eyes, and her posture grew less confident.

“I won’t forgive him. But I want to at least move on from all this. I want to be able to be free, and to feel something besides loathing.”

“I could send you home,” Wilson offered hesitantly. “I know it seems… I know it would take a lot of trust on your part, but I really do want to help.”

“You’re a good man, Wilson,” Charlie said in a soft tone. “I wish I were half as good.” Inwardly, Wilson wondered what she meant by that, but then she was taking his hand, pulling him to stand next to her. “Alright. I’ll let you send me back.”

“How do I do that? Er, I didn't really get much practice while I was-”

“Just keep holding my hands while you’re in the throne. I know where and when I’m going, so you won’t have much trouble.”

Wilson nodded, and sat down. Unexpectedly, he could feel that black ichor fill his veins. He felt tense, ready to burst with energy, but at the same time restrained as They reached out and grabbed him, pinned him to the chair. Charlie's face was blurry, and he panicked, squeezing her hands, digging his nails in as if he were holding on for dear life. Eventually, though, his panic passed and his vision cleared. The tension remained, and he felt a great metaphorical weight on his shoulders, whispers in the back of his mind.

“This is terrible,” he heard himself say as though from a distance.

“Maybe I shouldn't let you do this.”

“No. You deserve to go home.” He squeezed her hands once more, reassuringly. She nodded and closed her eyes, and not knowing really what else to do, Wilson closed his.

He was onstage, a great crowd of people openmouthed in disbelief before him. Ladies in shimmering sequined dresses and furs, holding opera glasses, gentlemen in dapper vests and hats, all looking directly at him. And he felt a rush of vulnerability, stage fright, confusion, and he looked around and William was not there anymore, and any sense of wonder there might have been turned to grief as he somehow realized that this was not a magic trick, not anymore. William was gone for good.

When Wilson opened his eyes, Charlie was gone. She had been returned to the place she had been taken from, and would never know about the time she had spent imprisoned, warped by dark powers or used as a pawn in Maxwell's cruel game. Wilson suspected a little piece of her would always know anyways. There were things that were impossible to truly forget, he had learned.

 

There was a voice in the nothingness, and it was not his own internal monologue. Maxwell opened his eyes (or perhaps they had always been open?) and a light appeared on the horizon, almost reminiscent of a star. It grew bigger, and bigger, and then a familiar face loomed into view, and a hand reached out to grasp his own. All of the emptiness left his body, overwhelming joy flooding in as the warm light touched his face.

“Wilson!”

“Say, pal, you don’t look so good,” Wilson teased, but his smile was ear-to-ear and incredibly infectious. He pulled Maxwell out of the darkness and into what was instantly recognizable as the throne room, with a little modification. The floors were now worn wood, and lamps of every shape and size adorned the path up to the throne. The little side table that Charlie had shown him earlier lingered at the edge of Maxwell's vision, apparently put off by the amount of light.

“You're the king now, then.”

“Yes. It’s kind of a long story.” Wilson gestured embarrassedly at the floors. “I feel like I’ve sort of ruined the evil fortress atmosphere, but I got homesick.”

“Where's Charlie?” Maxwell asked, a pang of sadness interrupting the warmth in his chest.

“I sent her home. I know that this means that we can't really go through with our plans, but it was the right thing to do.” Wilson fidgeted with his hands, staring at the wooden boards. "Even if it means I'm stuck here, for now."

“You can still go home, Wilson. I’ll send you-”

“Absolutely not! For one thing, leaving you to your own devices has never worked out well for anyone.” Wilson drew nearer, and Maxwell could feel his heart thump against his ribs as Wilson's hands found a comfortable place on his shoulders. “For another, I never got that kiss I was promised.”

“I suppose we can argue about it later.” Maxwell slid his arms around Wilson's waist, noting amusedly that he had become a bit taller. Wilson’s lips met his a little clumsily, not entirely on target, but it made Maxwell's skin prickle and he kissed back, moving a hand to nestle itself in Wilson’s hair. They parted slightly, and Wilson's breath was hot on his cheek. He pulled Wilson to him tightly, a mixture of happiness and guilt, sadness, isolation, hope threatening to escape him.

They stayed like that for a very, very long time.


	12. Endings

They had wasted no time sending those who wished to leave home.

Willow had refused to go, of course, pointing out that it was arguably harder to find food out in the real world than it was in this one. Wilson had heard all about the sorry state of affairs the next decade would bring, how Willow had begged door to door for her next scrap, carrying only what was necessary for survival. And her bear, of course.

Then there was Wendy, who had been Maxwell's niece, back when he had been William Carter. She was pale and scrawny, a bush of golden hair on her head, and she had stayed because this was the only place she could see Abigail again. Abigail, he had learned, was her sister who had died and undoubtedly had watched over her, only becoming tangible when their twin souls had been pulled into the other world. She seemed happy to live with them, and Maxwell doted on her like any good uncle. 

At first, Wilson had wanted to send her to be with her parents, but both Maxwell and Wendy had convinced him otherwise. Her parents had been distant and neglectful, even more so after Abigail had died. Wilson supposed he understood a bit of what that was like.

A few others had stayed, too, including the little spider boy who had never known another home, and the wrinkled librarian who insisted she would be more focused on her craft free of the distractions of the outside world. 

Wilson had curated a little place for them all to live, a beautiful valley full of crops and free of harsh weather. His powers had been difficult to master but rewarding to use, and he had recreated a multitude of different vegetables and plants for them to harvest.

There were times when he was overwhelmed, of course, and a billion voices filled his head with dead tongues, words that had been forgotten long before the rise of humanity. 

In an instance of this, he and Maxwell retreated from the village and returned to the throne room. By now it bore a great resemblance to his home on Earth, and it was littered with spare parts and strange machines he was prototyping. Eventually, he thought he could send someone over with the blueprints, and advance technology by a few decades or so. 

For the moment, though, Wilson was incapacitated, useless to do anything but rest and try to ignore the draining, dizzying feeling. It felt like having blood drawn, almost, that sickly vacuum drawing something… else from his being. Already his hair was greying in places, wrinkles deepening in his face where the skin had been smooth before.

“Maxwell?”

“Hm?” The taller man seated himself on their bed, putting his hand over Wilson's tenderly.

“I'm dying, aren't I?”

“Well- slowly, yes. The same as any of us will.”

“I’m not… It's not that. Not the aging I’m necessarily afraid of.” Wilson squeezed Maxwell's hand, as he often did when he needed comfort. Maxwell reciprocated the gesture, nodding. “It's what happens afterward. I mean not to my soul, although that’s an entire other fear. When the throne empties… is it going to choose someone else to do this to? Are we going to have to continue this wretched cycle forever?”

“That's a good question.” Maxwell frowned. “Unfortunately, I think we can both guess the answer.”

“If there's one thing we do have, it’s time. Even with my aging. I think we should invest that in preventing it from happening to anyone else.”

The next months were spent poring over the Codex, recruiting help from the other survivors, and strengthening the village to prevent anything from going awry. They had settled on exploring the caves as their most promising lead, and although Willow and Wolfgang had set up an excellent underground base of operations, Wilson had insisted on going it alone to the bowels of the cave system.

It was almost time for the expedition, now. Everything had been prepared, although truthfully Wilson would not need much. He was more concerned leaving his friends alone, Maxwell especially.

It was nighttime, and the moon permeated the darkness more than ever, leaving everything bathed in a blue light. He rested beneath a sturdy birchnut tree, watching the nocturnal members of the camp go about their nightly routines.

“Ahem.”

“Oh, Maxwell. Come join me, I’ve just been… lost in thought a bit.”

“I’ve been thinking too, pal.”

“Please don't try to convince me to let you accompany me. The caves are dangerous, even sometimes to me. There are certain things that I just can't control down there, ancient things, and-”

“Wilson. There is no possibility, no sequence of events that will dissuade me from coming with you, and that's final. I swore to myself that I would never lose you, and I won't. I won't hold you back, either, I have put some real work into my repertoire of survival skills.”

“I suppose you always were better at fighting. And grounding me when I try to overcomplicate things.”

“Ah, like that winter-”

“Yes, with the hounds.” Wilson grimaced. “I'm still mortified you remember that.”

“We have been together for quite a while, haven't we?” There was a look in Maxwell's eyes, and a subtle movement of his hand towards his pocket.

“Where are you going with this?” Wilson said, puzzled.

“I spent some time making a gift, of sorts. If you choose to accept it. Which you don't have to, I would understand-”

“Maxwell.”

He drew something small and shiny from his coat, and slowly opened his palm to reveal a glistening golden ring.

“Wilson Percival Higgsbury-”

“Yes,” Wilson breathed, and nearly knocked Maxwell over as he threw his arms around him. 

“Wilson, I wasn't at all finished,” Maxwell chuckled, but planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “You realize this means I have to come with you to protect you.”

“I’ll protect you, too. I have more than enough power to do that now.”

“You always did.”

 

They bid goodbye to their friends the next morning, after an enormous feast Wilson had conjured up in celebration. Overall, there was more hope than there were tearful goodbyes. 

If there was one thing Wilson was confident of, it was that they could survive anything, he thought as he looked down at the ring adorning his left hand.

“Ready?” Maxwell said, and slid his fingers in between his husband's, illuminating the cave around them with an old, rugged miner’s hat.

“Ready.”

And they marched into the depths, a beacon of light in the darkness.

 

_Through all kinds of weather_   
_What if the sky should fall?_   
_Just so long as we're together_   
_It doesn't matter at all_   
  
_When they've all had their quarrels and parted_   
_We'll be the same as we started_   
_Just travlin' along singin' our song_   
_Side by side_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and sticking with me for 12 chapters! This was incredibly fun to write and I'm really glad other people enjoyed it, too. The lyrics included at the end are from "Side by Side" by Paul Whiteman & his orchestra.


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